


July USUK Hetalia Prompts (2020)

by aph_foreign_relations



Category: Hetalia: Axis Powers
Genre: Cardverse, Domestic Fluff, Free day, M/M, Mistakes, Pining, Seasons, USUK - Freeform, hetalia prompts, hetalia usuk challenge, history au
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-07-06
Updated: 2020-07-15
Packaged: 2021-03-05 02:47:05
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 3,923
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/25117120
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/aph_foreign_relations/pseuds/aph_foreign_relations
Summary: Join America and Britain as I drag them along in short stories inspired by prompts! (With images<3)
Relationships: America/England (Hetalia)
Kudos: 20





	1. 4th of July Prompt: Mistakes

**Author's Note:**

> This is also posted on my Tumblr Blog:  aphforeignrelations. Please enjoy!

A yelp resounded throughout the apartment.  


“America!” called Britain, setting aside his computer and standing from the couch. He began striding towards their bedroom, his socked feet padding across the hardwood with haste.

There was a moaning echoing from the tiled master bathroom, sounding both parts dismayed and pained. There, as Britain poked his head through the doorway, laid America. 

Supine in his position upon the fluffy bath mat, the world’s reigning superpower looked to the bright artificial light adorning the ceiling and sighed, perhaps embarrassed that he’d been found in such a compromising state, or simply disappointed with the universe for being the way that it was.

It should be noted that America was not naked. No, indeed; he wore a tailored Armani suit, jacket a deep navy blue and undershirt a crisp white. The fabric delicately hugged his trim waist and emphasized his broad shoulders, leading down to a pair of long legs.

The culprit of this unfortunate event sagged on America’s upper left foot. A black sock, damp from displaced shower water, stood ominously beside the bare right foot, emitting a general air of haughtiness.

Britain took a careful step inside, toeing over the spots of wet floor so as to avoid the same fate as his star-crossed beau. America said nothing as Britain knelt beside him. He settled America’s head in his lap and initiated a gentle hair pet, avoiding Nantucket and carding his dexterous fingers through golden strands.

They were quiet for a moment, then America relaxed into the head massage and hummed contentedly, turning his face to nuzzle into Britain's waiting palm.

“My ass hurts,” he said plainly, minutely wiggling the aforementioned feature for articulation and wincing.

Again they were silent, Britain twirling a strand about his index and America contemplating reality and the general laws of physics, strategizing his ass’s retribution.

Next came that wonderful phase in an injury where the adrenaline wears off and the pain crawls out to say hello. America sniffed defiantly as he turned around and began to pick himself off the tiles, Britain showing his support in the form of a hand on his shoulder. 

Finally, America stood upright and stared at his reflection in the mirror, still foggy in the corners from residual steam, and fixed his glasses.

Britain glanced at the man’s reflection before looking at the original. “You,” he began, reaching into the cabinet to grab a bottle of Advil pills, “are an idiot.”

America looked away from the mirror to glare at Britain. Scathingly, he said, “Love you too, babe,” before snatching the offered tablets from Britain's hand and swallowing them dry.

Bending down, America cautiously eased the demented sock off his foot, tossing it and its brother into the laundry basket located in the corner of the room. When he resurfaced, Britain took America’s face tenderly by his jawline and kissed him sweetly, no tongue, before forcing America’s indigent eyes to lock with his.

“But you,” said Britain, caressing America’s cheekbone, ”are my idiot.”


	2. 5th of July Prompt: Pinning

**World Conference (Modern) - Hosted by Spain**

“And so it is clear to see,” said Northern Italy, gesticulating enthusiastically towards the projector with a laser pointer that systematically found Russia’s eyes, “that if the entire world were to convert to Roman Catholicism, we could all drink wine and there would be eternal world peace!”

Here Italy paused in his presentation to look out at his audience and was not in the least thwarted by the many dispassionate (and one gleefully murderous) gazes either looking back, flitterting about the room, penning notes, or angled to their laps where a hue of blue light could be seen.

“And that,” proclaimed Germany, grating a hand down his face before looking up, “is lunch.”

Chairs screeched as the nations all stood and shuffled lethargically to the entrance, some mumbling half-hearted vulgarities in their native tongues. Across the room America tapped the shoulder of Britain, who had just finished organizing his meeting notes.

Holding up his iPhone for Britain to view, he said,” I offered to take you out to lunch last afternoon.” To be sure, the phone did display an email expressing just that.

Britain shrugged languidly, meeting America’s eyes behind the device. “I was preoccupied yesterday; hadn’t caught the chance to check my email.”

America frowned, sighed frustratedly, and looked to his shoes, his nose scrunched in displeasure.

“Well,” said America, taking his glasses off and cleaning them with a handkerchief from his suit’s breast pocket, ”would you allow me to treat you?” He put his lenses back on his face and glaced to Britain, gaze hopeful, “Unless you’ve a previous engagement?”

Britain tapped a finger to his temple, feigning thought at his schedule. “No, none that I recall.”

He turned to the table and placed his papers in a leather messenger bag, looped the strap about his shoulder and took America’s elbow lightly, “Your version of flirting is obscene, America. If I didn’t know better, I’d fancy you to be coerced into this little courting of yours.”

“My apologies, Britain,” America said, sincerely. “Things have been stressful back at D.C. Trump’s, ... well; you read the news, you understand.” He squeezed Britain's hand where it sat in his arm, maneuvering them towards the hallway.

“Ahh,” Britain nodded, mindlessly flipping the bird at France as he passed. ”Then let’s not stay on the subject any longer.”

Changing topics, America suggested, “I saw a nice cafe on my way here. Sandwiches, coffee and tea, it looked nice. You game?” He cocked an eyebrow to his companion, opening the building’s exiting door and let Britain through, trailing after him.

“That sounds marvelous,” Britain nodded. He yawned, stretching his arms out and rolling his shoulders. To the side, America smiled, his cheeks flushing a warm pink.

“And I was thinking,” America touched Britain’s pinky with his own, “that maybe you’d be interested in joining me for drinks tonight? I’ve a minibar in my room and recently bought a nice red yesterday at a local shop.”

Britain tilted his head towards America and sniffed knowingly. “I’d be glad. However, I do wonder how you’ll keep up your ‘you-have-to-ask-me-to-be-your-lover’ act under the influence.” He nudged America’s side softly, letting his breath ghost along his jawline. America shivered.

They arrived at the mostly-empty cafe, America pulling out a chair and Britain settling into it. America turned to the register, ordered “Un café y un té de desayuno inglés con leche, por favor,” then swiped two menus from an unoccupied table and sat down, handing one to Britain.

As they eyed one another over their menus, America signed under his breath, “ I guess we’ll see.”


	3. 6th of July Prompt: Domestic Fluff

Britain did so enjoy New York City. It was a lovely place, the culture and people unconventionally diverse. Apart from the actual location, America’s Manhattan apartment was one of his favourites.

It sat on the 10th level of a 12-floor building, modernly constructed with tall ceilings, glass exterior walls and a cool grey and sea-blue interior. A large kitchen and full bar stood in the living room, where a brown sectional sofa bordered a steel coffee table. There were two bedrooms, each equipped with full bathrooms and closets. The master bedroom was spacious, but not overly so.

America had nice taste, when it so pleased him, and because this was his most lived-in home, second only to DC’s condo, he had gone all out, his interior design ingenuity lost to the world.

Supported against the excessive amounts of throw pillows at the head of their kind-sized bed, Britain turned the page of his book, slid a thin wooden bookmark into place and deftly closed it, placing it lightly upon the nightstand. Clad in snuggly pajamas adorned with fairy folk (an anniversary gift from America), Britain plucked the television remote from the cream bedspread and pressed the power button.

Just then America entered, hair pulled back by a band and skin sparkling from his rigorous skin care routine, teeth white from a recent bleaching and eyebrows plucked to perfection, displaying a Batman onesie.

In his arm he held an enormous bowl of buttered, salted popcorn where red, blue, brown and green M&Ms could be seen scattered about. 

“Did you pick the movie yet, babe?” asked America, striding across the room to the bed and handing Britain their snack, plopping himself beside his lover. He took the bowl back and snaked his hand about Britain’s waist, tugging him closer until their sides were pressing comfortably from shoulder to ankle.

Taking a piece of popcorn from the bowl, Britain chewed and swallowed before responding, “How about Sherlock Holmes and the Case of the Silk Staking? With Rupert Everett.”

America squeezed Britain’s side, laying his head on his shoulder, “Your call; I chose last time.”

Hitting “play” and setting the remote to the side, Britain moved his right hand to America’s thigh, giving it a firm pat, “That you did.” He sighed disparagingly, as though sent back to somber reminiscence. “You and your horror films. I shall never understand your desire to scare yourself senseless, nor how you achieve such fright from so straightforward a plot.”

America stuck his tongue out petulantly, cramming popcorn and chocolate into his mouth to vex his lover.

Sure enough, Britain tisked and swatted at the thigh still beneath his hand. America finished his mouthful and kissed Britain’s temple, a silent apology.

Crossing his arms and turning away in jest, Britain mumbled slyly over his shoulder, “You’ll have to do better than that to get back into my good graces.”

Chuckling goodnaturedly, America grasped Britain’s hip, drawing him onto his back so he peered up at America, “Oh, my good fellow,” he cooed, imitating the comically distraught voice of Holmes on the screen, “I never intended to cause you such melancholy. However shall you forgive my brutish behavior?”

He bent down and nipped at Britain’s ear, extracting a shiver. Laughing attractively, two hands pushed America’s face away, “Y-yes, you’re forgiven, you devil.” 

Still America persisted, nudging his face past Britain’s weak defenses and rubbing into his chest while his hair was gently tugged at, the pair of them smiling with giggles caught in their chests, lavishing in the love they shared, taking and giving all that they were able.

Britain raised himself by his elbows and kissed America upside down, the tip of his nose catching America’s chin. America smiled into the kiss, bending to ease the strain on Britain’s neck.

Eventually, when they had both settled down to watch the movie, breaths elated and mood euphoric, legs intertwined and mechanically munching on popcorn, America spoke, “You are an absolute delight, Britain.”

They met each other's gazes, Holmes and Watson sharing an equally heated look (the latter on the topic of a murder suspect), and grinned foolishly, carelessly, adoringly in the way that only two near-immortal beings helplessly in love could.

To Watson, Holmes smiled, “Elementary, my dear.”


	4. 7th of July prompt: Freeday (I Drew A Comic)

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> This is a short comic I did for the Mistake prompt (Chapter 1). I’ve never drawn a comic before, so hopefully it’s alright. :)


	5. 8th of July Prompt: History AU

**Headcanon**

In a human AU Alfred Jones and “Lord Arthur Kirkland II” would have been lovers. Kirkland would have been overseeing part of his family’s business (maybe tea or china manufacturing) in the Colonies and Alfred would be a labourer. They meet and badda-bang badda-boo! *Magic Glitter*

So then the Revolution roles around and Lord Kirkland is still loyal to the British. He wants to travel back to England because his goods are being boycotted by the Colonists.

Alfred and Arthur share a romantic evening and the morning after Arthur mentions his plans for relocation and offers to take Alfred with him.

Alfred refuses, of course, and declares that he is an active revolutionary. He then tells Arthur that he must choose between their relationship and his loyalty to the crown.

Arthur responds with nothing but “Farewell then, love,” and they part ways.


	6. 9th of July Prompt: Seasons

**Autumn, London**

The late autumn breeze swept through the trees, red and golden leaves breaking off their perches and swirling in the cool night air, eventually settling on the dirt ground. Receding sunlight shone dimly in the sky, casting a subtle definition through shadows. A gravel path wove its way through the park, flanked by greenery and weathered wooden benches.

On this path strolled two men, their hands clasped together and conversing quietly, so as not to disturb the natural tranquility of the outdoors.

The shorter of the pair had on a tan grey coat that ended mid-calf and a matching belt cinching his waist. The trimming was neat and tidy, demonstrating high quality and vigilant care. Atop this was a navy blue scarf, hand knitted, wrapped loosely about his neck. His hair was a messy strawblond and his eyes were the most peculiar shade of verdant, seemingly illuminating in the near-darkness. 

His partner, standing a good few inches above him, wore a padded jacket, navy blue, zipped up to his neck with an eagle patch placed over the left pectoral. Plain jeans adorned his legs, fashionably scruffed at the knees. Likewise his companion, his hair was blond, though it was stylized with a part to the right. Sticking up from the part was a defiant cowlick.

His eyes, too, were quite unnatural. Striking cobalt irises were framed by black lenses, foggy at the bottom from heat, stared ahead.

Both men appeared content in each others’ company, comfortable pauses between words supplemented by background sounds of wind blowing through open space and nocturnal creatures roaming about.

The man with the scarf spoke, puffs of vapour clouding about his mouth, “I wish we could do this more often, America.... Perhaps, in a month or two, you could come for a longer stay.”

An owl hooted off in the distance. Absentmindedly, the American squeezed their hands, “I think that may be do-able. D.C. hasn’t been too busy; I suppose I could slip away for a bit.”

Britain leaned sideways against America’s arm, listening to the soft crunching of the pebbles as their footfalls fell. He remained nonverbal.

Britain’s thoughts went back to the day’s work. He allowed America’s solid form to guide them while his mind drifted. He did need to send out that document to France’s dignitary before they turned in (because that bloody twat was quite persistent that Britain never took full advantage of his time off). He also needed to write his grocery list for the week. He’d need to double-check that recipe he planned to make for Monday's supper; was it cream, or was it buttermilk…?

Suddenly, America took a leap forward and to the side. Britain let his inner dilemma rest and gave America his attention, allowing himself to be dragged along the path behind him. There was a lightly worn patch of grass, noticeable only because Britain was looking for it.

Releasing the curious Briton and expecting him to follow, America wound himself through the trees, fallen branches snapping beneath his leather derbys.

True to form, the late empire let America lead the way, retrieving a small flashlight from his coat pocket when the trees became too thick to let any natural light penetrate.

“I’d visited this place a few days back,“ America commented, the back of his broad shoulders weaving around trunks and ducking awkwardly below lowhanging branches. Britain was short enough that he only needed to shimmy his way through, bowing his head rather than arching his back. “I had that early morning meeting, ya know, the one with your navy peeps, and this park was only kinda outta my way. And I had a few hours to kill,” here the American slowed, stepping into a clearing.

It was a large open space, secluded from the oft-busy path. The area was about ⅓ of an acre, with bushes scattered about by the edges with the trees. The grass underfoot was irrigated and well kept. But the most noteworthy feature, without question, was the large open sky, flooding the place with moon and starlight. 

However America found a spot such as this by simple chance, Britain had no idea. The sky was clear and everything was perfectly visible. The temperature was chilly, but somehow it complimented the view, and made the senses more acute.

He switched off his flashlight and placed it back into his pocket, spotting America headed towards him from some bush he’d been poking near. In his arms he held a wicker picnic basket and blanket, grinning at his gob-smacked lover smugly, pleased that his plan had worked.

He reached Britain and kissed his ear, whispering, “Ain’t it just gorgeous?” He looked upward, “When I saw that I just knew it’d be beautiful at night.” He shifted his bundle, “And you looked like you could use a nice ol’ romantic evening o’ stargazin’.”

He kneeled down and laid out his picnic supplies, he and Britain unloading everything and setting it up.

Once they had sat down upon their blanket, their socked feet touching and eating the selection of cheese, crackers, and meats the American had prepared, they let their breaths settle and watched the sky, listening to the sounds of nature and drinking in their silent companionship.

A soft wind whirled around the open space, ruffling the bushes and making the grass sway. The moon was full and shone brightly among the stars.

America poured each of them a cup of hot chocolate from a tartan thermos, handing one to Britain and setting his aside.

And so, with their hearts and bodies interwoven, America and Britain experienced a cold autumn night.


	7. 10th of July Prompt: Cardverse

**The Kingdom of Spades**

The palace’s dining room was a grand thing. The table, sitting large at the centre of the room, was made of mahogany wood with a checkered top that gleaned from constant polishing. Chairs of royal blue and gold lined the perimeter, identical with artisan woodwork. 

The walls of the room retailed stories of old. The paintings so ancient that most inhabitants of the kingdom hadn’t learnt the meanings behind the intricate symbolism. Past kings and queens, members of the original aristocracy and brave, courageous citizens remembered only in the strokes of a brush.

Servants bustled about their morning choirs, cleaning and preparing food, setting the table for their monarchs. 

Facing the east a large window took up most of the wall displaying the full view of the kingdom, the market sector projecting the most colour and the citizens visible as dots progressing in all directions.

The entrance of the dining room was likewise extravagant. Expansive wooden doors spanning from just below the ceiling to the floor in an arch were painted with all assortments of blues, purples, and golds. The light of the sun reflected off the glazed wood. A centerpiece of blue and white roses brought out the purple and violet tones in the furnishings, creating an air of majestic luxury.

Just beyond the entrance came an exclamation:

“God dammit, Arthur! If you’re pullin’ my leg I swear to god you will rue the day we met!”

A new maid dusting the windowsill poked her head up in alarm. The voice was thunderous but distinctive, sounding beyond frustrated. That same voice was familiar among common folk and upper class alike, though never had she heard a tone so authoritatively fuming.

A servant held open the large door, permitting entry to the current king and queen of the Kingdom of Spades, Alfred F. Jones and Arthur Kirkland.

The palace staff, having heard this argument ring through the halls and chambers for the past hour, gave the pair a wide berth, going about their duties with as little contact as possible.

Wang Yao, the jack, followed quietly behind the bickering pair, tutting now and then as a mother would her foolish offsprings.

Servants pulled out three chairs beside each other, standing at the backs as the royals took their seats.

Tucking a napkin beneath his collar, Arthur lifted a dainty fork from beside his plate and helped himself to the display of seasonal fruit set out, ”Honestly, Alfred, I don’t see what difference it would have made had you been informed sooner; the circumstances don’t vary.”

Alfred watched sullenly as Arthur placed apple slices and strawberries on his plate after serving himself, tipping his nose up at the wordless peace offering. The king narrowed his eyes to slits, projecting an expression of abject disdain.

“I’ve lost my appetite, perhaps permanently,” Alfred sniffed, watching Yao cut into a peach tart, the glaze breaking under the knife’s blade. “And you. Why did neither of you think that I may want to know?” 

Yao ignored him, taking a bite of his breakfast.

“Uggggg”, he groaned, sliding down the back of his seat. 

There he stayed for the remainder of the meal, his mouth drawn down in displeasure. He absently listened to the light conversation between Arthur and Yao and to the light clicks of silverware, never touching his own utensils.

But his mind was far away, swimming in a pool of misery and betrayal. He fought to keep his spirits above the surface, but the depth of his emotions seemed infinite and his mood began to sink.

There was a long pause of silence in the hall that he failed to perceive, caught up in his own melancholy. Too late he registered the scrape of chair legs, and soon pale fingers were cupping his downcast chin, gently raising it.

Emerald met sapphire, the former communicating concern while the latter remained unresponsive.

Alfred’s mouth felt dry and his tongue thick. His gaze skirting away, ”I think I’m gonna take a walk in the garden. I need to clear my head.”

The queen’s generous eyebrows scrunched together, his countenance wedged between pondering and frettful. He looked back to the full plate and speared a strawberry, holding it in front of Alfred’s sealed lips, “Won’t you have a bite before you leave?”

Alfred gently pushed the hand away, still not meeting Arthur’s eyes, “I’m really not hungry, Artie.” He fixed his posture and a servant rushed to pull his chair back.

The king stood, leather boots creaking. He turned to leave the hall but paused, remembering something. He looked over his shoulder at Yao, drinking from a china cup, “I’ll have returned in two hours, have the contract in my office by then.”

Then with a resigned sigh he made his leave, echoing footfalls light and even, worryingly atypical behavior for so impassioned an individual as he.

When the door shut Yao looked to a fidgeting Arthur pointedly, a slender eyebrow raised, “Do something about that man, Arthur. We cannot have him in this depressed state of mind when we meet with Braginski’s diplomats.”

Arthur gave Yao an annoyed look, taking the rejected fruit into his mouth and chewing thoughtfully, “I suppose I could… entice him with an afternoon of horseback riding. We haven’t taken a casual trot in…. well, blimey, it must’ve been over six months ago.” Arthur appeared surprised by this.

Still standing by Alfred’s chair he reached over the table in a rare display of breaking protocol and took a pink plum. He wrapped it in Alfred’s unused napkin, then tucked it safely into his coat’s pocket.

The queen removed his own napkin from his collar and set it beside his empty plate. Peering at his pocketwatch, embellished with a silver spade and diamond rimming, he tisked. ”I’ll turn him ‘round,” he said to Yao, exiting with a dramatic flare of his cloak.

Yao continued to sip at his tea after he had been left, calculating the success of Arthur’s endeavours and wondering if the Clubian diplomats would be raiding their supply of vodka again, reminding himself that he needed to request a larger shipping order.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Aaaand this is the last chapter. I had a great time participating in this challenge (as it was my first) and I am in the process of drafting an entry for usuktwiceperyear on Tumblr. Please send in any requests if you like my style, I'd be happy to get ideas from my reading audience. Thank you all for reading!


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